Merging of the Minds
by Doublebee
Summary: It's hard to be Dave. Especially when you're remembering another Dave's memories. Some inception-like time skipping around shenanigans, because what else does one do with Dave?


The sensation of falling into an abyss of nothing is what jerks you awake.

You yelp, body flinging up into a sitting position, gripping at blankets to hold you upright. Your thin chest heaves, and you have to look around to make sure you've woken up in your room, and not the hellish dream you've just launched out of.

Another morning in the shoes of Dave Strider.

.-._.-._.-.

You don't really know what brought that on; the nightmare last night. You can't really remember it for shit (that's nothing new) but it still kind of bothers you. Maybe even scares you. When you get thinking about it, trying to remember it all, your hands start shaking and you have to take one of those deep, deep breaths, like a woman in fucking labor.

Nightmares aren't really your thing. Not that you don't have them- you usually do, in fact -you're just not used to them having such a serious effect. After that mental hell, or otherwise known as the game Sburb, was finished, you struggled sleeping in a manner quite similar to this. Upon stumbling on this realization, the computer is now what you find yourself shuffling up out of bed to sit in front of, dragging your blankets with you to wrap around you much like a shaul as you open up the ever-famous Pesterchum application.

A few clicks and scrolls later, you find the screenname you're looking for; loving (not really) ectosister and self-proclaimed Strider-brand therapist, one Rose Lalonde. Quickly you open a a chat with her. She is answering in mere seconds.

- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 8:40 am -

[TG]: lalonde

[TT]: Oh my, the dashing knight has finally awoken. You had the whole kingdom worried about you, thy brave sire.

[TG]: wow

[TG]: that was kind of the last fucking thing i needed right now

[TG]: like

[TG]: the was equivilant to me wishing to take a dick up the ass at this very moment

[TT]: Dave. If you are allowed to make multiple stabs at any and everything I do, I am more than positive that I should be allowed to make a jester of your past "occupation".

[TT]: And, I think you _may_ just want to hide that homosexual quip. You most certainly don't want me putting that on your "coolkid" record, now.

[TG]: no no

[TG]: jesus its not that

[TG]: i had a fucking horrible dream

[TT]: Hmm.

[TT]: Anything like the horrors you've described to me before?

[TG]: not really

[TG]: shit you expect me to remember?

[TG]: no lets just say no

[TG]: completely new brand of terror

[TT]: Ah. Care to eleaborate?

[TT]: I've got youre file nice and ready for some new notes when you are.

[TG]: i dont remember it though

[TG]: just the last part before i woke up

[TG]: i was falling

[TG]: like i got hit from the front or something just kind of

[TG]: staggering back and falling over something

[TG]: it was fucking horrifying

[TT]: I see.

[TT]: So, even though you don't recall all the nitty-gritty details, it's still plaguing you? That's more than a tad concerning, Dave.

[TT]: I assume I've warned you of the risks of PTSD for the likes of us as a group, yes?

[TG]: ugh

[TG]: if you're going to just throw some bullshit diagnositcs at me

[TG]: ill just hit you up again when i can fucking remember more than just the last part

- turntechGodhead [TG] has ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 8:58 am -

Well, a session of bashing your head on the keyboard whilst talking to Lalonde certainly did nothing to cure your mind of the horror of your previous dream. You sigh, rubbing the heels of your palms into your eyes with a yawn. You're all kinds of exhausted. Getting up before 10 is most utterly **not **how you roll.

But you're awake, and you assume you might as well make the most of it. You shed your blanket-shaul in your desk chair, shuffling out into the hall and into the bathroom. A shower is definitely what you need.

You turn on the water- scalding hot is your style -and strip of your boxers as you wait for the steam to rise up from the stall. When you step inside, you're nearly _burning_ and you just stand there, because there's nothing you want to do about it. You want to burn away the nightmares, you want to burn away the Game, you want to burn off every layer of you that makes you a cold, distant asshole and live anew.

But some hot shower water isn't going to do that; you know, because you've tried too many times.

So you attempt to actually do something useful, which involves reaching for the bottle of shampoo to lather your hands with. As you do this mundane, pretty much involuntary action, your vision does this weird, flickery thing, before you nearly fucking scream.

You're not in the shower anymore. You're lying (yes, most definitely lying, you're down on your stomach, but it feels like your middle is being stabed directly through with something. _Ouch._) in the middle of a place all too familiar; a place you've never, ever want to take a step in again.

It's your world.

It's that place you created, back as a miserable, loser thirteen year-old boy. The Land of Heat and Clockwork. Which, for the record, you don't mind mentioning how insanely true that title is. You can feel the heat, on your face and shoulders and _everywhere_ and it's real and you try to talk but it just hurts too fucking much to breath, nonetheless vocalize a cry.

The hand you had been holding in front of you, back in your own fucking shower, is still in front of you. Though it's now this blinding sort of orange, and you dully make out some large-ass talons on your fingertips. Almost like an animal. Some animal with talons...

That pain in your abdomen hurts just _so motherfucking much_ though. You really can't see past your hand, if that really is your hand, because it's just kind of a trip to stare at with all those stiff, sharp talons. Finally, you can feel your mouth opening, and when you try to scream out a curse, you find yourself indeed not yelling out the massive "fuck!" you're dying to cry.

You are cawing. You are cawing like a mutated sort of human and avian in one, and it's a disgusting noise that makes you make said noise even louder because **you just want it to stop.**

And then, it does.

And you're standing back in your shower, staring at the tile wall in the burning spray of water. Your hand is still outstretched, fingertips brushing the side of the bottle you had in mind. Horror renders you immobile for all of fifteen seconds, and suddenly you're just doing the usual shower routine, scrubbing your hair much, much too hard to be healthy and rising it out just as fast.

When you've finished cleaning up, and drying off, you throw on fresh clothes. It kind of stings when the cotton of your shirt rubs against your scalded skin, and it most definitely is uncomfortable when you slip into your jeans, but you put up with it in favor of needing a distraction of, that thing that happened.

A hallucination? Those are new. You've never suffered something like that during consciousness. You think about telling Rose, but you decide against it. She'll probably make you out to be a lunatic. Or spit some useless psycho-babble at you. Two things you really want to live without, for the time being.

Instead, you settle for gathering up the photos you've left strewn about your room. Last night after you got home from the photograghy lab at school, you kind of just threw your bag aside, sending all of these lovely photographs flying in your hellhole of a room. Your older brother made a point of mentioning how destroyed they were going to get if you simply left them like that, and he was right. Bro might not be home much, but he does think your pictures are pretty bomb, especially the ones you've snuck of him while he shines swords and the likes, so you listen to him.

You're bent over, gathering the small pieces of paper in your hands as carefully as you can manage. Truth be told, you treat every one like a precious fucking gem. Delicate between your fingertips, close to your chest. There's honestly somewhere near forty pictures that have escaped the confines of your bag, but you don't mind. Looking over them makes you smile a bit, in fact.

You pick up one of the dark, starry night sky. Specifically of the Cancer constellation, presented in the top right corner of the photo. You're thinking of sending that one to John. He'd most definitely appreciate it.

A few of Bro here, a couple black and white's of objects you've decided to snap a picture of because reasons you never seem to remember. One of a sword stabbed through a pillow makes you hault in your actions entirely.

A sword. Stabbed clean through a pillow. Feathers caught in their action of ejecting from their humble home inside pillow silk.

And then, you're gone again.

This time, you're on your back. That pain from before is ripping you apart, and you may or may not hear that bloody, hideous squawk that made you want to croak earlier. The sky is black and mulitple types of red; defnitely the sky of your shitty planet.

You cry out, that horrible, _horrible_ noise again, but it's of no use. There's no one to help you, not here. Your breaths are shallow, ragged and noisey. You can't seem to kick your legs. It just feels like a breeze, drifing over where you're lower extremidies would be flailing.

So, you roll over. You roll over, a painstaking ordeal, to lay on your belly again. Ah, this is familiar. You were like this in the shower. Your hand is outstretched in front of you once again, those same taloned fingers.

A bird's hand. That's it.

But you already know what that looks like. You try to focus, to look past your reaching fingers. There's a person there, you can barely tell though, you're sight is starting to go a little fuzzy at the edges. Maybe the pain is to blame? You're not sure, but you don't care, because this huge wave of _guilt_ just crashed in your heart and you suddenly want to cry.

And then you start to claw yourself forward.

Your legs don't move. You can't even feel them. So you have to just use your arms, to struggle and pull with all your fucking might. You caw out in agony every few drags, because your abdomen feels like it has been pulled out of your chest and you are _dying_, but you need to get closer; you simply _need _to get over to whoever is lying ahead of you.

Drag, drag, squeallllch.

You spare a look over your right shoulder. A nub of fuzzy orange and sticky, dripping yellow greats you. It smells kind of like copper, and after a moment of dull, stupid staring, you finally realize you are looking at a wing. Well, the nub of it; feathers covered in a bright yellow that you assume to be blood of some kind. Pus? Whatever.

_There are wings on your motherfucking back. __**Why.**_

You snap your head forward. You really can't afford to be distracted, for whatever reason that may be; you've got bodies to recognize. You continue your agonizing clawing across this smooth surface beneath you. Almost there!

You make out a white shirt.

Stained in the reddest blood you have ever seen in all of your life.

You feel sick. You literally want to vomit. You want to snap out of this hallucination; it's too long and gross and you can't take much more, you're sure. But for some reason, your taloned hands are dragging you closer and closer, until the overwhelming scent of **blood** is in your nose and mouth and it's the only think your senses are picking up, because there is _just that much of it_. You're intriuged to see who in fuck's name is bleeding this much, if they're even still alive from losing so much of the vital crimson fluid.

And then, it's Bro.

And you're back in your room, the picture in your hand all bent from where your fingers are grabbing it with no hesitation, unlike before. You're breathing like you've literally had your lungs slit and you're trembling like a fucking leaf.

You don't know. You don't want to know what that was. If you do happen to figure it out, you might actually have to care about it. And that is something you just don't have time for; caring about bullshit that is so obviously not your problem.

But that was your Bro, and now you have to know. You _have_ to know what happened. Why you had wings, why was one missing in the first place? Why was Bro bleeding there, so helpless? What was going _on_?

You swallow- a dry gulp in your throat -as you continue to pick up the rest of the pictures. At this point, you're trying your goddamn hardest not to look at the shitty pictures in your hands. Risking another hallucination (flashback?) is not something you want. Fuck no.

When you finish your task, slipping the stack of photos into your messenger bag for when you head out again, you sigh, straightening yourself up with a crack of your spine. You kind of don't know what to do now, because everything has now got you on-edge. Anything could be a trigger.

Maybe you just need something to drink.

Yeah, something to calm you down. You snatch up your shades from their place on your desk (you don't really sleep or shower with your sicknasty shades, no matter how naked you feel without their warmth on your face) and duck out of your room and out into the kitchen. You try your hardest to make sure you're not looking at anything in particular, or for too long, because you seriously just want to be normal, just for once in your fucked up life.

You yank open the fridge- which should earn you a medal or something, what with those stupid swords jutting every what way from within -and snatch out a large container of fruit punch.

God dammit, Bro.

On the counter, in your brothers' handwriting is a scribbled note on the back of a recipt in orange highlighter: "They were out of apple juice."

You roll your eyes, setting the jug of the shitty red fruit punch on the counter while you get a glass. And then you're just doing normal things; pouring yourself a normal glass of a normal drink, with no surprise attacks from Bro or knocking a weapon off the counter and onto your foot (like you happened to do last month). Just a mundane task. Normal is really, really nice.

You take a sip of your drink, exceptionally delighted at how cold it is, even without ice. Just something Texans are more prone to, you suppose, what with the never-ceasing heat of the day and the much too warm nights.

After a moment more of nusing your drink, you turn back to put the jug of your not-so-shitty punch back in the fridge. Unfortunately, you seem to forget about the cup of the stuff still in your hand as you open the fridge with your foot, and the door slams into your wrist, sending your cup flying. You gasp, mumbling out a quick, "shit!" before the shattering of glass makes you sigh. Quickly, you finish your task and close the door, to see the mess you made.

And then, you're gone. _Again_.

This time, though, you are where you left off. You're putting your weight up on your elbows, next to that bloodied body, and your face feels kind of wet?

You don't notice until your vision clears, (just a bit) with a trickle of coolness down your cheeks, that you are crying.

You're in that massive puddle of blood you saw before, but it doesn't matter. Because now you remember who the one lying in said crimson fluid is, and it makes you gag and sniffle and squawk out a hideious, pain-filled noise, like the ones you were screaming out before.

It's Bro. It's _your_ Bro, sprawled out before you, unmoving and so eeriely still. There's some shitty sword you can't even be bothered to recognize jutting out from him, like it actually fucking belongs there, and you yell out. Not any words, but just the most terrible, sorrow-filled caws you can muster, in your unhuman voice.

You're screaming and crying and getting even closer to him , to pick up his hand, because you _need_ to touch him, just once. It's not warm, not anymore, and you notice how severely you're shaking when you pick his large, normal hand up in your own orange, taloned one. With a sniffle, you bring it up to your cheek, to wipe away your tears.

Somehow, this is your fault. In this trippy body, as you lie beside your brother in your own made-up Hell, you know from an ache in the very bottom, most tender part of your heart that this is, indeed, _your_ fault. You might not know how, or why, but it is, and you just cry, and cry, and cry.

And then, you're being pulled up. By something that has clearly impaled you, (you look down to see the handle of a sword digging into your middle, the source of that agonizing pain earlier) you are being pulled up by the back end of it that sticks out behind you. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts on so many motherfucking levels that make you writhe and scream, and your vision is blurring because holy **shit**, it hurts.

When you are pulled up to a level above the ground one achieves by standing, (you don't have legs, apparently. What the fuck.) you are turned violently around. There's this black shadow... thing in front of your face, and it's snarling and looking at you with these hate-filled eyes. It's got this green glow, but you could just be seeing things, because your vision is fucked to hell, and you really can't see anything anymore. You feel cold without holding your brother's hand to your face, but this pain radiating throughout you is more than enough to cover the lack.

You scream and squawk and caw and make all these noises, but all that happens is this thing holding you up gets this sick, dirty, shit-eating grin on his face, and then he's grabbing the handle of the sword that is invading your internal organs and yanking it from out of you, which you should be kind of thankful for, but it just hurts even _more_.

And then, without him holding onto you by the sword or your clothes or anything, you wobble back. There's nothing behind you to catch you, though. Just air and space and a shitload of nothingness.

And you're falling, falling faster than ever before. Falling, falling, falling, into the darkness below.

.-._.-._.-.

The sensation of falling into an abyss of nothing is what jerks you awake.


End file.
